A Poem for Fall

And ‘lo,
Here the first sharp pain in my back,
As Prince Autumn stabs the first cold coil into my spine,
The Wind piercing,

Leaves whip,
From casts of blusters,
Crushing them in the hands of a brisk death,
Where the final flashes of color across their edges,
Are mistaken for beauty.

Where there will soon be despair,
We ponder the moments before the funeral,
Paying tribute to a season that claims the life of Life,
That castrates Spring and Summer,
That we celebrate when we should spit on,
That swallows our dreams of the passing year for good.

Just kidding,
It’s 80 in California,
Suck my rocks,
I will never die.

— Walt Whitman


About Eric Skala

Wit is directly proportional to available bourbon.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: